


Moments

by Junejuly15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cold, Coming out of the Closet, First Kiss, Fluff, Holidays, Hot, Kissing, Love, M/M, Romance, Sexy, Sickfic, Slash, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-03-25 16:45:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3817657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junejuly15/pseuds/Junejuly15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Moments' is a collection of Johnlock ficlets, depicting moments from all stages of Sherlock and John's life together - funny or compromising ones, sad ones, sexy ones, whatever tickles my fancy (and in no particular chronological order) - Hopefully it'll grow into a kind of album for Sherlock and John, collecting some favourite moments, there to be revisited whenever you want </p><p>Chapter 3: Hot/Cold - Sherlock hates the heat, but likes the cold and John proves to be the exact opposite</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awkward

'I hate Mondays.'

No answer.

'Detest them, loathe them ...'

A sigh.

'... with all my heart.'

Another sigh, this time tinged with a definite note of exasperation.

'Don't know why anyone would like them! I mean, they are nothing but a recurring pest, brutally cutting everyone off from their weekend, bludgeoning any relaxation...'

'Shh!'

'... ruthlessly throwing everybody into the hungry mouth of ...'

'Shush! We don't know if he's still around.'

Silence.

'Sorry, it's just that I start babbling when I get nervous.'

'Clearly.'

'Aren't you?'

'What?'

'Nervous.'

'Why should I be?'

Unobtrusively Sherlock rotated his right shoulder, trying to alter his posture in an attempt to relieve the cramps which had started assaulting his neck and shoulders. John started talking again, almost a whisper now, less animated, a tired edge to his voice.

'It's just ... it's so bloody stuffy in here, and talking helps.'

'I know.'

John let his head sink forward until his forehead touched the soft wool of Sherlock's coat. His next words were a bit muffled.

'I'm not claustrophobic, you know that, don't you? But it's been quite a while that we're in here and ...'

'I know.'

'Will someone find us?'

Sherlock shifted from one foot onto the other and winced. His calf muscles were taut, his shoulders burning with cramps now and the air in here grew stuffier and hotter with every minute. He felt beads of sweat running down his spine.

'Will they, Sherlock?'

'Obviously.' He hated himself for the false optimism he injected into his voice. Surely John must notice? Thank God, the darkness surrounding them played in his favour, hiding the flicker of fear in his eyes.

John slightly turned his face and pressed his ear against Sherlock's chest. The steady _dadumm - dadumm - dadumm_ of Sherlock's heart calmed him and he let his eyes flutter closed. Not that it made any difference in this _bloody_ dark hole, but every little helped. He exhaled noisily, his shoulders slumping, and leaned against Sherlock with a sigh.

'John?'

'John?'

'Hmm?'

'You mustn't fall asleep!'

'Why not?' John mumbled drowsily. 'We're not out in the cold, there's absolutely no risk of you or me succumbing to hypothermia.'

'True,' Sherlock conceded and slightly cocked his head. 'It's more that you are fully leaning against me and you're heavy. My shoulders cramp already and I don't know if I can support your weight once you've fallen asleep.'

'Charming.'

Silence.

'So?'

'So what?' But John shifted a bit to the side, transferring his weight, leaning against the wooden boards instead.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and used the miniscule space John had created between them to slightly bend his knees and stretch his shoulders. That was better - but now John was distant, not touching him anymore.

'If you want...' he hesitated, cleared his throat, a rather loud noise in this confined space, and he strained his ears for any noise coming from outside. When there was none, he continued. 'I mean, I stretched ... a bit and I guess it's perfectly alright if you slightly leaned against me now.'

'Cheers,' John said and happily reclaimed the space he had vacated mere moments ago.

With John so close Sherlock regretted that he could not lift his arms and wrap them around him. Impatiently he clicked his tongue. John chuckled, knowing full well that being so close, yet unable to touch properly, must annoy Sherlock.

'You okay?'

'Almost.'

'Oh?'

'I have to stoop. Uncomfortable, that.'

'I'd never thought I'd be happy about being of a rather compact frame.'

Sherlock merely grunted in reply, followed by the sharp intake of breath. John's eyes opened, it was impossible for him to relax and overlooking Sherlock's discomfort.

'Can we sit down, maybe?'

'I don't see how. We can barely move as it is.'

'Maybe if ...' John lifted his head, the abrupt movement surprising both of them, the crown of his head bumping into Sherlock's chin.

'Ouch!'

'Sorry,' John gingerly lifted his hands, extending them sideways, trying to fathom the size of their hiding place. In no time his fingers bumped against wooden boards. 'Not a lot ...' he mumbled and lifted his hands. Mere inches above his head he felt wood again. He realised how painful it must be for Sherlock to remain standing up.

'Do try to sit down.'

'I really don't think I can.'

'Bloody _hell_! Stop arguing for once and just ... just try!'

'For God's sakes, John!' Sherlock snapped, but the pain in his shoulders and neck convinced him to give it a go at least. 'I think we will have to switch places ...' He started inching along the longer side of the rectangular. He had inspected it earlier when the first shock about their predicament had subsided, had ghosted his fingers along the wooden boards, and Sherlock knew that it was roughly three feet wide and less than two feet deep.

What if he tried to squat down and John ...? Yes, this could work.

Slowly he moved along the wooden boards, moving John with him in a parody of a very determined, yet strangely intimate dance. John giggled. Sherlock growled.

'Sorry,' John breathed, though he wasn't sorry at all. His face was pressed into Sherlock's chest now, and he felt the delicate material of Sherlock's shirt precariously stretched over hot skin, heard his heart beating fast and steady. He smelt delicious, the earthy scent of the chase, the dark and humid notes of the night mingling with the scent of recent exertion. John placed an open-mouthed kiss on the delicate fabric, slipping out his tongue and leaving a wet trace.

Sherlock stilled and for a moment the only sound they could hear was their heart's beating and the blood whooshing in their ears.

'John?'

Sherlock's voice rumbled in his chest, pleasantly tickling John's lips. He placed another kiss on the shirt.

'John, what are you doing?'

'Oh - just passing the time.'

'Right.'

It was awkward, but Sherlock liked awkward. Liked it quite a bit. Nevertheless, he needed to sit down, needed to change his position, and so he gingerly slid down the wooden boards as far as he could.

'Straddle me,' he ordered and John obeyed.

'Ahh -' Sherlock exhaled when he finally sat on the dirty ground, cross-legged, his back pressed against the wooden boards behind him and his knees scraping the boards opposite. A position which would give him cramps in his thighs and back in no time, but at the moment he could not care less. What a relief, what utter bliss he felt, when the pain in his shoulders and calves slowly subsided, becoming duller, leaving a not entirely unpleasant numbness behind.

'Better?' John was very close, his breath ghosting over Sherlock's face. He could not see him, only hear, feel and smell him. Exciting that was, a promise.

'Yes,' Sherlock whispered. 'Yes, better.'

His nose bumped into John's cheek and he giggled. John's face split into a wide grin in response, a grin which Sherlock sensed rather than saw.

'A bit awkward, this.'

'Stop talking.'

'He might still come back ...'

'That's an order.'

'Well, if it's an order ...'

'Shh!'

Sherlock giggled again, inexplicably reacting to the absurdity of the situation with silliness. But he bit his lips and obeyed. If truth be told he occasionally did not mind when their roles were reversed and he could relax and give himself entirely into John's hands.

Slowly and tenderly he moved his lips over the soft stubble on John's skin and inhaled the musky scent enveloping them in this confined space. His tongue slipped out, lapping at the skin, But he preferred kisses and so his lips traced a trail from John's jaw to his neck, kissing his Adam's apple, moving back up to his jaw, his ear. John moaned, raw and sinfully loud in this enclosure, and exposed his neck even more.

Sherlock grabbed John's jacket with both hands, bunched the material and lifted it, trying to expose some skin. But there were even more barriers, a jumper, a shirt and when after all this groping his hands finally touched hot skin, John let out a surprised hiss. Sherlock growled, low and dangerous. Quite a different sound to the schoolboy giggle a moment ago, exciting, arousing.

John's hand moved up and down Sherlock's arms encased in his woollen coat, cursing that there was no way he could reciprocate and touch skin. He tried to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, managed to undo one, two buttons, but there simply wasn't enough space to go further, and with a frustrated growl he lifted his hands and buried his fingers in Sherlock's hair instead, playing with the curls, tugging quite roughly and pulling him towards him. Their mouths met in a rough kiss, lips, teeth and tongue, messy and urgent. Their gasps and moans filled the darkness, their kissing as exciting as it was frustrating, sensuous and aggravating, made so by their inability to move, to go any further.

A sudden noise alerted John and he lifted his head. He struggled to control his breathing, and for a moment all he could hear was Sherlock's panting and his own beating heart.

Then a thud, quickly followed by loud footsteps.

One person or more?

'What's that?' he whispered.

'I think they found us!'

'They?'

'Lestrade. I texted him before we set off.' Sherlock sighed and tried to adjust his posture. When he spoke again, he sounded peeved. 'Hopeless as always, though. It's been hours, no wait ...' he fumbled for his mobile phone, 'One hour, twenty-seven minutes to be precise!'

Loud banging, more footsteps, some muffled shouts and then a screeching sound as if a heavy object was unwillingly dragged across a stone floor. Another ten seconds later a blinding light assaulted Sherlock's eyes. In reflex he screwed his eyes shut and winced.

'Sherlock - John,' an amused voice said by way of greeting. Even though John could not see DI Lestrade, he knew exactly that there was a smug smile firmly in place, one which would soon be morphing into a smirk ready to settle semi-permanently on the Inspector's friendly face. One that would not budge for the next day or so.

'Gavin,' Sherlock countered, managing to sound haughty as well as bored, as if being trapped in a cupboard for more than an hour and having to rely on Scotland Yard to be freed, and let's not forget being found in a compromising position manifesting in being straddled by one's flatmate, and both of them looking entirely dishevelled and flushed, was nothing out of the ordinary.

John blinked a few times and sighed, painfully aware of the various pairs of eyes on his back and with the help of Lestrade he climbed out of the cupboard, careful to hide his flushed face and the fact that he was partially undressed, whereas Sherlock arrogantly refused a helping hand. With unrivalled elegance he unfolded his legs and climbed out of the cupboard, entirely unfazed it seemed.

With a curt nod he pushed past Lestrade, and it was only because John knew every inch of his body and was able to interpret even the slightest twitch of his limbs that he could see the discomfort still visible in his gait and the brightly flushed tips of his ears as he arrogantly strode out of the room.


	2. Inconvenient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the second chapter I used a prompt by the lovely WitchRavenFox:
> 
> A very poorly John (flu or something) needs to be looked after, and Sherlock decides it's something he can manage, and flu-ish kisses take place to help a stubborn doctor stay in bed. :)
> 
> I decided to let them have a first kiss, so basically yet another fluffy variation of John and Sherlock getting together. I hope you like it, dear WitchRavenFox, even though it might be a bit different from what you expected!
> 
> Enjoy reading :)

It was quiet.

No, that was an understatement, it was preternaturally silent.

In fact, the silence was such that it seemed as if the dust motes merrily dancing through the gloomy air in the sitting room were actually uttering a little sound when they landed on the various surfaces, something akin to a sigh.

It was heaven.

Suddenly this blissful silence was disrupted by a mighty sneeze ripping through the flat and rousing Sherlock from his meditation. Impatiently he clicked his tongue, stubbornly keeping his eyes closed for the time being, but nonetheless he was very irritated that he had been so rudely catapulted out of his carefully crafted tranquility. Additionally, the impertinent noise had frightened away the sliver of a thought which, he was sure, would have handed him the key to the problem currently bothering him. But everything was lost now and what had seemed to become clearer and clearer only a moment ago, was rapidly growing more and more obscure, evading him with a every passing second.

With a sigh he let his hands fall to his sides. He was somehow prepared for the second sneeze that soon exploded, nearer now, and when he sat up he saw John stumbling up the stairs and into the kitchen.

Getting up, feeling the sudden and quite unexpected urge to place a cool hand on John's feverish forehead and denying himself this out-of-character sentiment, opting instead for steering him to the one wooden chair which was not entirely covered by paper, was one.

'Don't feel well,' John muttered, comically scrunching his nose before another sneeze shook him to the core. He sniffled and frantically searched his jacket pockets for tissues.

'Here,' Sherlock handed him an almost empty box. Inconvenient, was the word that flitted across his mind. John should not be ill, it wasn't helping. He silently admonished himself for this unfriendly thought and yet he inexplicably had to suppress a smirk, one which he knew would not be welcomed.

' _What_?' John asked, somehow sensing Sherlock's confused mirth. He wiped his nose, and, mightily sighing, leaned back against the kitchen table as if he was too weak to sit up without help. He sounded very grumpy, old-man-grumpy even, and Sherlock fought harder to keep the smirk in check.

'Nothing,' Sherlock stuffed both his hands in his trousers pockets and rocked on his heels. 'Caught a cold?'

'What a stupid question is that? I'd say it's bloody obvious, isn't it?'

'Clearly.'

'Why ask then?'

'Just making conversation.'

'Well, don't ...' Another sneeze racked John's frame. He wiped his nose again and closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating on the illness raging within him. Sherlock noticed that he had started shivering, despite the heat in their flat. He himself liked it comfortably warm when he descended into the confines of his mind palace, usually far too hot for John's liking, so the fact that he was shivering now was even more disquieting. Sherlock bit his lips and glanced around the kitchen before his gaze settled on his flatmate once more.

John's face was glowing in a feverish hue and his breathing was laboured, slowly in and out through his mouth, indicating a blocked nose. His lips looked parched and pale, his eyes were glassy. Sherlock's eyes darted to the sofa and back to John. It was clear that he had to make him rest, it was more than obvious even that John was suffering from something more serious than a common cold.

Without further ado he gently cupped John's elbow and helped him to get up. There was no resistance and no grumpiness left now, which told Sherlock more about John's state than he wanted to know.

'You have to lie down,' he softly said, acutely aware that he was deliberately touching John. John merely nodded and then he slumped down. Sherlock's hands shot out to steady him, and with a sigh John leaned against him, breathing heavily. It was as if all his vigour had left him. For a moment Sherlock feared that John might fall asleep instantly or worse, lose conscience, here in the kitchen. With a bit of shuffling and some cumbersome manoeuvres he managed to steady John and then steer him towards his bedroom and next to his bed. With infinite care he helped him to sit down.

'I'll just ...,' he muttered while trying to conceal the fact that he had not cleared away the content of his suitcase from last week's trip to Birmingham, and so his clothes, fresh and used celebrating a happy reunion, covered almost all available surfaces of his room. He grabbed a suit and a shirt which he had carelessly dropped on his bed, ranged it in his wardrobe, and then, after helping John out of his jacket and shoes, he helped him to lay down.

Again, the fact that John made no sarcastic or ill-tempered remark was disquieting to say the least, and Sherlock felt something flutter in his chest. A feeling which he could not quite place, a feeling which was equal parts painful and pleasant. He shook his head to clear his mind, and turned on his heels, his eyes darting through the gloomy room. He had remembered that just this morning Mrs Hudson had presented him with a new duvet she had bought for him on one of her trips to the department stores. He found it on the floor next to the chest of drawers. After a moment of hesitation he draped it carefully over John who had fallen asleep with his mouth partly open. Shadows lay beneath his eyes and his skin was glowing with fever. It didn't matter. To Sherlock he was beautiful. He resisted the urge to touch him, maybe to smooth back some stray hairs from his forehead, and only reluctantly left him in the very capable and healing hands of sleep.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

Sherlock woke with a start and abruptly sat up in his chair. The screeching tyres of a car speeding along Baker Street had woken him. It was late at night and it took him a moment to find his bearings, but almost all at once the memories of the last hours came floating back.

The one of Mycroft dropping by some hours ago, hiding his concern behind haughtily arched eyebrows and this parody of a smile, but leaving them to it after Sherlock had made it more than clear that he would not budge as long as John was so unwell. And of Mrs Hudson carrying up trays of food in the evening, and making tea in the hope of John feeling better or at least Sherlock eating a morsel, but both hopes had been crushed repeatedly.

Yawning Sherlock wiped his hands over his face and straightened his back. He fished his mobile out of his trouser pockets and scoffed. Thirteen new messages. Quickly he checked them and found that Lestrade had given up trying to lure him to join the Yarders at a crime scene after the fifth message, and that his subsequent messages had turned into more and more concerned questions regarding John's state of health. Nothing he needed to attend now, Sherlock decided, and dropped his phone to the floor.

He leaned forward, eager to check on John. He found him sleeping still, his face flushed and a sheen of sweat gleaming on his brow. Sherlock leaned even closer, his hand hovering over John's forehead. He wanted to touch, yet something held him back. His fingers trembled, and with an impatient click of the tongue he snatched his hand away. He sat back in his chair, which some hours ago he had dragged across the floor all the way from the living room to the bedroom because he knew he would not leave John.

Wide awake now he leaned forward again, placing his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. His eyes never left John's face when he continued his vigil.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

John stirred, and even though he was not yet entirely awake, he realised that something was wrong, that he was not where he should be, in his room, in his own bed. The light was different, it smelt differently, and it was cold on his right side whereas his left side was toasty warm. He blinked a few times, the remnants of sleep stubbornly clouding his mind.

 _Jesus_ , he felt awful. His mouth was dry and when he swallowed his sore throat gave him hell, and every single bone in his body ached. He lifted his hand and carded his finger through his hair. _And_ he needed a shower. Slowly he turned his face towards the pale square of the window. Through the thin curtains the dawning day greeted him.

'God, I feel like shit!' he muttered.

To his surprise a grunt answered him. Quickly John turned his head towards the sound only to find Sherlock lying next to him, close, very close, immediately explaining the heat he felt on his left side. Sherlock's eyes were closed, his face relaxed, turned towards him and one arm and leg were possessively draped over him. John narrowed his eyes and scoffed, trying to make sense of the situation. Slowly Sherlock opened his eyes.

'Your fever was very high.'

John squinted, trying to understand, and then he nodded.

'I was afraid you would faint, that's why I brought you here instead of carrying you up to your bedroom.'

'Right. And?'

'You slept for more than twenty-four hours.'

'Did you ...?'

'Mrs Hudson.'

'Right - Okay.' John lifted the duvet a bit, trying to make out how much or rather how little he was wearing, and was relieved when he glimpsed boxers and a t-shirt. He also realised that Sherlock had not moved, had not withdrawn his arm. Sherlock seemed to notice just then and snatched his arm away. He shuffled to the far side of the bed, not touching anymore, leaving John feeling deserted.

'Feeling better now?'

'Yes, yes. In fact, I do.'

'Good.'

John tried to sit up and started peeling back the duvet. Immediately Sherlock's arm was back in place.

'What do you think you're doing?'

'Getting up, taking a shower, going up to my ...'

'No!'

'No?'

'Obviously.'

Sherlock's arm felt like a wooden log on John's chest, effectively holding him in place. John closed his eyes, dizziness flooding him, draining him, and he accepted that there was not an ounce of strength left in his body. He sighed and lay back again.

'All right.'

They were lying side by side now, Sherlock's arm still on John's chest. It was heavy and warm, but it felt good and without thinking John put his hand on Sherlock's lower arm, finding cool and soft skin, spreading his fingers. There was a sharp intake of breath and immediately John snatched his hand away.

'Sorry, wasn't thinking.'

'No, please, don't. It's just...'

'I know.'

'I don't think you do, actually.'

John turned his head to face Sherlock. And wondered why Sherlock had said that, because of course he knew, had known for quite some time. John blinked once, twice, blinked like somebody trying to focus, focus on Sherlock's eyes which were very close. In fact, nerve-wrackingly close and John's heart reacted by assuming a faster pace, beating an excited tattoo. Sherlock's eyes, swimming in and out of focus right before him, were blue-grey-green, oscillating between those colours. His pupils slowly dilated and almost swallowed the small brown freckle in his right eye John had never noticed before. He felt a pang of regret.

'I think I _do_ know, Sherlock.'

Sherlock didn't reply, but knitted his brows and bit his upper lip. John's eyes were irresistibly drawn to those lips, to a Cupid's Bow almost impossible in its beauty.

'You know that you're very likely to catch my virus?'

A lopsided smile relaxed Sherlock's face and he nodded his assent. Slowly he lifted his head and moved closer. When their lips almost touched he whispered, 'I guess, there are worse things than sharing a bed with you.'

'Be careful what you wish for...' John whispered back and with a tired sigh he lay back to allow Sherlock to take the lead. He closed his eyes and awaited the soft touch of lips on lips. Doing so felt unreal and yet so right.

The kiss, when it came, was tender and slow, careful and reverent. And both of them knew that it was a mere prelude of all the things to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading and thank you to all of you who commented, favourited, alerted or left kudos!
> 
> I hope I'll be able to write another chapter soon (maybe a second part to this chapter?), but my life is quite busy at the moment and unfortunately doesn't leave me much time to write. But I'm very much looking forward to your comments and if you have a prompt, please let me know!
> 
> JJ xx


	3. Hot/Cold

**I: Hot**

 

 

'Don't you think we could find a better spot?'

'I quite like it!'

'Less ... I don't know. Just less of everything.'

'Hmm.'

Sherlock squinted and slowly turned his head towards where John was lying. With a frown he realised that it would take another five, ten minutes at most, before they would be completely exposed. He snatched his feet back and tried to retreat just that little bit further back. One inch, then another, but the palm tree trunk was the natural limit. No more place to go.

'It's just that I feel a trifle uncomfortable.'

'I'd say that's the understatement of the century.' John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. He smirked, 'You're positively seething with discomfort.' With a grin he turned his face to the sun again and closed his eyes, quite evidently enjoying the heat and the glaring light.

'Remind me. Why did we come here?'

'We agreed it would be fun.'

' _We_ agreed?' Sherlock scoffed. 'Rest assured I would remember if I ever assented to an endeavour as ludicrous as this.'

'What's ludicrous about a week in the sun?' John's voice was soft and relaxed, his pleasure obvious. 'And you _did_ agree. Remember my last birthday? The drinking game? Well, you lost.'

'So I lost a drinking game. Where for God's sakes do you take my consent for spending a boring week among witless people in a place which drives me insane from me losing a drinking game?'

'Well, it was my prize, so to speak. We agreed on the winner being granted a wish.'

'Quite a big wish, though, isn't it?'

'Yeah.' John nodded and stretched on his bathing towel, giving the impression of someone experiencing utter bliss, much like a cat exposing its belly to be stroked. Little beads of sweat were running down his temples and dripping onto the red, white and blue Union Jack towel. Sherlock rolled his eyes, a Union Jack towel! Of all the abominations in the hotel shop John had to choose this one. Admittedly it went rather well with John's red speedos which snugly hugged his lovely forms. _And_ with his tanned skin. Sherlock licked his lips, but beads of sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes and the sweat pooling in his belly button made him acutely aware of his own discomfort again. It also made him stubborn and so he forbade himself to stare and enjoy, but decided to bask in his own grumpiness a bit longer.

'I feel dizzy. The sun makes me dizzy.'

No reply.

'And nauseous.'

John merely grunted.

'And I'm sweating and my skin is burning.'

'Didn't you use the sun blocker I gave you?'

'Nope.' The p was a little petulant explosion.

He had deliberately left the blasted sun blocker in their hotel room, a mistake, as he had realised some time ago, one that he knew he was going to regret. John opened his eyes and glanced at Sherlock who was leaning against the trunk of the palm tree, his face and torso profiting from the meagre shadow provided by the palm branches, but his feet and shins basking in the sun. His skin was bright red.

'Jesus!' John hissed and sat up. Immediately he covered Sherlock's legs with a spare towel. 'We need to get you out of the sun!'

'That's what I've been trying to tell you all along.' Sherlock tried to sound smug, but his attempt was falling rather short.

'Come on,' John began collecting their bathing things, stuffing everything into a wicker basket provided for them by the hotel, and so he missed the mighty sigh of relief Sherlock breathed. When Sherlock finally got up with John's help, he stretched his legs and the burnt skin began hurting in earnest.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

John's cool hands were gently smoothing after sun lotion on hot, burning skin, keeping the pressure at a minimum, careful and tender. Sherlock sucked in his breath because it did hurt, but exhaled with a sigh when the cooling effect set in.

He was lying on the cool cotton sheets on the bed in their hotel room, the shades drawn and a ceiling fan above the bed slowly twirling, sending some eagerly awaited cool air towards them.

'Better?'

'Yes.'

Their voices were soft and low, adding to the pleasant feeling slowly seeping into Sherlock. It was almost worth the pain of his sunburnt shins and thighs, he found. He glanced down his body and scoffed at the ridiculous tan line on his upper thighs, an almost grotesque whiteness against the vivid red. Unfazed John continued applying the cooling lotion to his legs, moving his fingers softly and expertly.

'Such a pity.'

Sherlock frowned, 'What is?'

'Obviously you won't be able to come to the beach with me tomorrow.'

'Well, yes,' Sherlock cleared his throat and injected a modicum of regret into his next words. 'I will miss the beach.'

'No, you won't,' John smirked.

'No, I won't.'

Sherlock answered John's smile, but then his face grew serious and he covered John's hand with his own. His intent was clear and after a moment John nodded, his own smile never leaving his face. He lifted an eyebrow questioningly and Sherlock answered with a curt nod. Carefully John placed the lotion on their night table and then sat back on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position without placing any pressure on Sherlock's sunburnt skin.

John leaned down with a grin and brushed his lips over Sherlock's chest, the skin pale, cool and soft. He kissed and caressed him, ready to distract him and to take his mind off the discomfort. When he glanced up he saw Sherlock's face changing, saw that he was giving himself entirely to the moment.

John's heart clenched when he realised what that meant and how far they had come. The trust and the love between them, unimaginable before, and now reality, and for a split second he glanced away, overcome by his feelings. But he wanted to see, he wanted to memorise and so he looked back at him, at his closed eyes, his head arched back and his mouth partly opened. Sherlock's head pressed against the white pillow, the tousled, damp curls providing a more than captivating contrast. All the while John's fingers never stopped caressing, eagerly tracing the sharp lines of his body and Sherlock's breath became more rapid with every caress, grew more pronounced with every tender touch.

John bent down and his lips joined his hands, kissing a trail down Sherlock's chest. For a moment he let his hands rest on his bony hips, both thumbs moving in a slow circular motion across the warm, silky skin. An open-mouthed kiss, placed on the sensitive skin just below his navel, elicited a gasp. John smiled. Yes, he knew exactly what he had to do to distract Sherlock Holmes.

 

* * *

**II: Cold**

 

The temperature had been dropping steadily over the past hour and suddenly snow wasn't just an unlikely possibility any more, but a distinct threat hanging over them. Sherlock peered outside and checked the dark clouds. Without glancing at John he moved his feet unobtrusively to coax some warmth back into them. He feared that the heating would soon be gone if the fuel gauge was anything to go by. He squinted at the display, maybe a few litres left.

'It might be better to turn off the motor.'

'And freeze to death? No bloody way.'

'Don't exaggerate. It's above zero outside and in here we have...' He leaned forward to check the display. 'Toasty twelve degrees.'

John snorted. Not a happy snort, not even a slightly amused one, Sherlock realised. Time to offer something.

'Give me your hands.'

'What?'

'Your hands. They look cold and I could warm them.'

John turned in the car seat, facing him.

'What a bloody stupid idea!'

John sounded really angry and Sherlock bit his lip. He was at a loss, and quite frankly did not know how to proceed. Something only John could do to him to be honest. And so he waited.

'Better give me your gloves instead!'

'Right.'

Immediately Sherlock peeled off his leather gloves and carefully pulled them over John's much smaller hands. The gloves were wonderfully warm and John fought hard to suppress a smile, as he wanted to hang on to his anger a little bit longer. If nothing else, it warmed him internally.

'Better?'

John noticed the hopeful tone, the slightly submissive undertone even, and he wondered, not for the first time, if anyone else had ever experienced Sherlock like that or if it was his prerogative.

'Yeah - a bit.'

John crossed his arms and tucked his gloved hands underneath his armpits. Sighing he leaned his head against the cold window.

Silence started settling between them, slowly trickling into each and every crevice like viscous treacle, greatly helped by both of their inability to break it. It wasn't a pleasant sensation at all, more like a cloying and overly sweet smell. Sherlock glanced at his bare hands and then at John's immobile form, and from there his gaze wandered outside, peering into the rapidly fading day, a gloomy twilight rather, and he became more and more unsure what he could offer to alleviate the tension. It was exactly because he knew John like no-one else in his world that he was aware that he would be unwilling to make it easy for him. No, very likely he wanted to see him suffer just as much as he himself was suffering in this bloody cold.

John's right leg twitched and Sherlock looked at him, seeing John's thoughts like a neon sign flashing in front of his mind's eye - _Why did we have to follow Mr Leeman to this godforsaken village? Why did we have to rent a bloody Land Rover which makes us stand out like a sore thumb on this hill? Why did we have to leave our cosy flat at all on this bloody Winter's day, a day colder than a monkey's behind_ \- although that was a Sherlock's choice of words, John would rather plainly call it a monkey's arse. And if John hated anything in the world - besides lies, deceit and Shepard's Pie - it was the cold. Hated it with all his heart, always had and always would. Sherlock knew that, but it couldn't be helped now, could it? He shifted in his seat, the silence had become deafening, and with awe he realised he could not take it any longer.

'John,' he started, hoping for a reaction, but there was none. He tried again.

'John? Maybe we could walk a bit, get some warmth back into our feet.'

Still no response.

'What do you think?'

Finally John turned his head and looked at Sherlock. His face was impassive, but his right eye twitched almost imperceptibly. Sherlock saw it and his heart sank. But then John nodded curtly and with a sigh from somewhere deep down in his chest he opened the car door. Without a word he left the car and waited for Sherlock to follow.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

They walked briskly side by side, very close, but not quite touching and their breath left their mouths in steamy white puffs vaporising in the cold air. Admittedly, it was quite cold, but it wasn't freezing and if Sherlock had asked John he might even have admitted that he rather enjoyed this little woodland stroll. But he didn't and John would be damned if he offered such a positive thought voluntarily, no, he rather liked having Sherlock feeling defensive. Liked it because it was a reaction reserved for him and him only.

Something occurred to him then and he glanced back at the car in the distance, the cottage no longer visible in the fading daylight. When he turned his gaze back to Sherlock he cleared his throat.

'Do you think it is wise to leave Mr Leeman unattended?'

'He's left the cottage hours ago.'

'What?' John came to such an abrupt standstill that Sherlock had to turn and walk a few steps back to join him.

'Yes. A car came to pick him up. Did you not notice?'

There was blush creeping up John's neck, and the twitch in his right eye was growing much more pronounced. Sherlock gulped, but remained silent and waited for John to continue.

'Why for God's sakes did we not follow him then?'

Sherlock flinched, although John's voice was soft and he had to strain his ears to understand him. He knew that this was just another little sign indicating imminent danger and so decided to tread carefully.

'Well, his accomplice arrived, his London acquaintance to be more precise. Came to pick him up to return to the city, I presume. As we both know, the only way back to London is via the M1. Plenty of CCTV there.'

'Yes, I know. But why did we follow him here, waited in the bloody freezing cold for ages, just to let him escape? And when did he leave anyway? I don't remember seeing a car arrive. Why did we not follow him?'

Sherlock looked a bit sheepish when he explained, 'You had fallen asleep and I didn't want to wake you. I texted Lestrade with the details, so there really was no need for us to follow immediately.'

'Right - okay.' The fingers of John's right hand began twitching and his mouth was pinched. He seemed to tremble with suppressed anger and Sherlock's heart clenched. There was a fear, a fear he only allowed himself to acknowledge very rarely, a fear that one day John might have enough of all that. Of their life. Of him.

He lowered his eyes to gather some courage before he closed the gap between them, standing close, very close. He did not know if he was welcome now, if he was wanted. His voice was low and insecure when he asked.

'Are you still cold?'

A brisk nod was all the answer he was rewarded with. John smiled sadly, quickly glancing at him and then fixing a point somewhere to the right of Sherlock's face. He would not face him, but he did not turn away from him either. It was a hopeful sign and so Sherlock opened his coat and wrapped it around John, gathering him close to him, warming him. John snorted, his back stiff and unyielding, but Sherlock would not back off and so he relaxed and eventually let his head fall forward to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, turning his nose towards the crook of his neck, enjoying the warmth emanating from his body. He closed his eyes and widened his nostrils to inhale the smoky scent clinging to Sherlock's skin.

'You are one insufferable git,' he mumbled against the soft wool of his scarf. A low chuckle rippled through Sherlock's chest, jiggling John's head. If John had made the effort to look up he would have been amazed to see the relief on Sherlock's face. He lowered his head and gently brushed his lips over the top of John's head.

'That's why you love me.'

There was no answer, and Sherlock closed his eyes. Not over yet, he thought resignedly and tightened his grip around John. But yet again, John proved him wrong.

'True,' John whispered. 'That's why I love you.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter I used another prompt by the lovely WitchRavenFox. Thank you so much, my lovely and I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> I hope you liked it as well and thank you all very, very much for your support! It's actually the best thing you can give back to me :)
> 
> JJ xx

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this first chapter and it would be lovely if you told me what you think of it :) Thank you so much for that!
> 
> By the way, if you have a 'Johnlock Moment' you would like me to write, please don't hesitate to tell me. I love to get prompts, they really help to keep my muse amused and busy! :)
> 
> JJ xx
> 
> P.S.: Please don't apply logic to this situation or think too hard about how the boys got trapped, or about the dimensions or other characteristics of the cupboard they find themselves in. I think I might have taken some artistic license there :)


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